


in his voice I heard decay

by ExultedShores



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Corpses, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, High Chaos (Dishonored), High Chaos Corvo Attano, I tagged Daud as a character but it's really just Daud's corpse, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Possession, Unhappy Ending, Upgraded DH2 possession in DH1, corpse possession
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:08:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21866488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExultedShores/pseuds/ExultedShores
Summary: "These past few months, bearing the Outsider’s Mark, he’s found that some of his powers are far more useful than others, and he has become particularly fond of the ability to possess other beings. He’s gone from possessing small creatures to wolfhounds to people, from being able to grasp another’s mind for mere seconds to grappling a consciousness for hours. He’s learned how to switch from one host to another without even regaining his physical form, and most recently, he figured out how to possess vessels that don’t contain a mind at all.In fact, it’s easier. A vessel without a mind doesn’t fight his control, and it doesn’t need to breathe, to eat, to sleep. There’s nothing quite like possessing a fresh corpse."Corvo kills Daud and possesses his body - but he isn't prepared to be faced with Daud's second-in-command.
Relationships: Corvo Attano & Thomas, Daud/Thomas (Dishonored)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 86





	in his voice I heard decay

**Author's Note:**

> In Dishonored 2, Corvo's possession power gets quite a few upgrades, one of which is the ability to possess corpses and unconscious bodies. BID and I were discussing Corvo's powers and somehow, the questions "what if Corvo could obtain the ability to possess corpses in the first game" and "what if Corvo could actually pilot the corpses he possesses" became... this. Because Daud can't say "Inside my mind is the last place you want to be" if he, you know, doesn't have a mind anymore.
> 
> Please mind the tags, folks. This is not a happy one.

In the end, it feels rather anticlimactic.

For months, he’s dreamt about the things he’ll do to Jessamine’s murderer when he finally gets his hands on him. Make him endure the same torture Corvo had to, locked in Coldridge for the rest of his life, a hot poker to his flesh at least once a day. Kill him, but slowly, painfully, breaking every single bone in his body until his heart can’t take it anymore. Bind him and leave him somewhere, freedom always just out of reach, until he starves to death. Feed him to the rats. Infect him with the plague. Deliver him to the Abbey.

But Corvo just can’t restrain himself.

His sword pierces Daud’s stomach in the same manner Daud’s blade stabbed Jessamine, angling upwards, straight through the heart. Daud barely has time to look surprised before the light in his eyes dims, and Corvo knows he’s dead before his body slides to the floor.

It’s much quicker than the bastard deserves.

But at least he’s dead, one fewer evil in the world, and Corvo finds he has neither the energy nor the time to dwell on it. All he wants is the key that will allow him out of this Voidforsaken place and one step closer to his daughter.

He kneels by Daud’s body, begins to rifle through his pockets – and like an amateur, is utterly unprepared when the door to the office opens.

“Master Daud, I’m sorry to disturb you, but…”

 _Shit_.

He’s not up to fighting Daud’s underlings, not without the element of surprise, not on their home turf, not when he’s still weak from the poison. He made it up here only because he managed to slip by unseen – if the Whalers spot him, he’s as dead as Daud.

And there is only one place where he can hide.

These past few months, bearing the Outsider’s Mark, he’s found that some of his powers are far more useful than others, and he has become particularly fond of the ability to possess other beings. The Watch doesn’t attack him on sight when he wears someone else’s skin, and no one ever expects an attack from someone they believe is their ally. He’s been investing his magic heavily in this power, has scoured the city for runes so that it might expand. He’s gone from possessing small creatures to wolfhounds to people, from being able to grasp another’s mind for mere seconds to grappling a consciousness for hours. He’s learned how to switch from one host to another without even regaining his physical form, and most recently, he figured out how to possess vessels that don’t contain a mind at all.

In fact, it’s easier. A vessel without a mind doesn’t fight his control, and it doesn’t need to breathe, to eat, to sleep. There’s nothing quite like possessing a fresh corpse.

Inhabiting the flesh of the man who killed his Empress, though… the mere idea of it feels inherently _wrong_. But it’s not like he has much of a choice. Not if he wants to live to save Emily from the treacherous snakes daring to call themselves loyalists.

Corvo calls on his power, and when he opens his eyes next, he’s staring up at the ceiling, a man in a Whaler’s mask bending over him.

“Master Daud!” the Whaler exclaims, extending his hands to help Corvo sit up. “What in the Void happened, why are you – _Outsider’s eyes_!”

Even though Corvo can’t see his face, he knows the Whaler is staring at the gaping wound in Daud’s – _his_ – torso, at the large pool of blood around him. “It’s fine,” he says, barely suppressing a flinch at the despised voice coming from his mouth. “Attano’s losing his touch.”

“It looks bad,” the Whaler says, and Corvo is surprised at the amount of concern in his voice. “I’ll get Vladko, he’ll dress the wound and –”

“No,” Corvo snaps, harshly. If someone examines the wound too closely, they’ll know immediately it is as fatal as it looks. “I told you, it’s fine.”

He shrugs the Whaler’s hands off and stands, with some difficulty. Daud’s body is shorter than his own, stockier, and Corvo can feel the pull of numerous scars, and an old ache behind the right knee – broken twice before, healed improperly, he surmises. The wound in Daud’s stomach burns fiercely, but it’s not the worst thing he’s felt. If the body was still trying to sustain itself, the heart still beating and the tissue trying to heal the damage, it would hurt worse.

“You’ve lost a lot of blood, sir. Vladko could –”

“I said _no_!”

He snarls the words, and the Whaler recoils – then draws himself up, setting his shoulders. “Look, I know you’ve been in a state since you killed the Empress. Don’t think we didn’t realise you left Attano in that joke of a prison because you wanted him to come for you. But you’re still here, and you’re _hurt_ , and you can’t expect any of us to just stand by and watch!” He lets out a huff that is amplified by his mask. “I’m getting Vladko whether you like it or not.”

The Whaler makes to leave, and Corvo unsheathes the broad blade at Daud’s hip, the same sword that took Jessamine’s life, now deceptively bloodless in the gloved hand that isn’t his own.

“Daud, what in the Void are you –?” is what the Whaler manages to get out before Corvo runs him through, the rest of his sentence little more than a choked noise in the back of his throat. They’re nearly nose-to-nose, and Corvo can see a pair of wide brown eyes behind the lenses of the mask before – oh, Outsider’s _balls_ – before his body slumps, and turns to _ash_.

It’s just completely gone, clothes and all, and if the unfamiliar blade in his hand wasn’t freshly stained with blood from tip to hilt, Corvo might have doubted the fatality of his stab.

It must be a Void-given ability, but it’s most certainly not one of his own. He’s never cared about the bodies left in his wake, prefers to display them prominently in a bloody trail to show his enemies he means business. No, this seems exactly the type of power _Daud_ would find useful.

And that’s… interesting.

Interesting enough to make him linger, flexing Daud’s left hand experimentally, trying to draw on the Void’s power. It’s the same power as his own, after all, just channelled through a different conduit, and he is rewarded when one of the books on the desk twitches, drawn to him by a transparent tendril – a _tether_ – of greenish magic.

He remembers that magic vividly, remembers it encasing his body, holding him helplessly suspended in the air, unable to do anything but watch as his charge was assassinated with brutal efficiency. The memory of it is enough to break his concentration, the book sliding off the edge of the desk and falling to the ground with a dull thud.

But now he’s certain of it: Corvo can use Daud’s powers.

He’s not sure whether to be horrified or elated. Daud’s magic is heavy, strong and unsubtle, and the mere feeling of it makes Corvo uneasy – but it’s still _power_. If there is one drawback to possessing others, it’s that he doesn’t have access to his own magic while he’s steering his hosts. They don’t tend to have the Mark of the Outsider emblazoned on their left hand, after all. But Daud _does_. Daud has had the Mark for decades, his abilities finely honed, his magic running much deeper than Corvo’s own – and Corvo can use that magic at his leisure now.

Not that he’ll be able to stay in Daud’s body indefinitely – and he doesn’t fucking _want to_ , at that – but he’ll damn well take it with him out of the Flooded District, at least. If he can figure out a way to control Daud’s magic without having to possess his corpse – could it be as simple as cutting off the Marked hand and keeping it close? – he’ll easily be the most powerful man in the Empire. Never again will he be caught unawares; never again will anyone harm his daughter. Void, he could give _her_ magic, too, with Daud’s ability to share his powers. He’d never have to worry about her safety again.

He needs to clean up. Just enough to make Daud appear alive, just long enough to get out of the Flooded District without any more of the Whalers questioning his state.

Daud’s Blink feels as strange as his other powers, a sensation like being scattered into particles and then reforming with a snap, nothing like the rapid pull of his own Blink, but it gets him where he wants to go, to the upper level of the room. The little nook that serves as Daud’s bedroom is deceptively mundane, cluttered but well-organised, and it’s not difficult to find a clean shirt and a spare red coat amongst Daud’s possessions.

He finds a bandage, too – a whole damn first aid kit, tucked away behind the books on the shelf, for when Daud didn’t feel like going to see this Vladko, Corvo surmises. He shrugs out of the torn, bloodied clothes, kicking them under the bed, and wraps the bandage around Daud’s torso. It’s sloppy work, but it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t need to stop any bleeding or compress the wound. He just needs to make sure none of the blood still sticking to Daud’s skin will soak into the fresh shirt, and with the lack of washbasin in the vicinity, this will have to do.

He’s just buttoning up the shirt when he hears the tell-tale sound of a Whaler’s transversal, like a rush of displaced air, coming from the lower floor of the office. He feels it, too, an almost imperceptible little tug at the Mark on Daud’s hand – and the mere fact that the link between the Mark and the Whalers wasn’t severed when Daud died is a titbit he files away for later. If the magic lingers this strongly, surely he can find a way to harness it for himself.

“Daud?” the inevitable call comes from downstairs – and once again, Corvo is unprepared for the amount of concern lacing the voice, pitched high and frantic. He must have seen the pool of blood on the floor of the office. “Daud!”

“What?” he barks – meant to just call out, really, but Daud’s voice makes everything sound harsher. Maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe the Whaler will realise he’s not in the mood and leave him alone. Maybe then he can finally get the fuck out of this Voidforsaken place.

Of course, it’s not that easy. It’s never that easy.

Instead, there’s another rush of displaced air, another small tug on his borrowed magic, and the Whaler appears before him. This one isn’t wearing a mask, revealing a comely face, blonde-haired and blue-eyed – but Corvo doesn’t get a good look at him, because the Whaler surges forward with unexpected urgency, tightly grasps his shoulders, and _kisses_ him.

Familiar. Safe. _Right_. That’s how it feels to have this man’s lips against his own – except they’re _not_ his own, and these are not his own feelings either. They’re Daud’s, the lips and the body and the feelings and the magic, and Corvo clearly isn’t as in control of them as he would like to be.

The kiss is a chaste thing, a stolen moment, and the man pulls back as quickly as he’d leaned in, a brilliant smile gracing his features. Corvo doesn’t know that smile, doesn’t know this man, but the sight loosens something in his chest – in _Daud’s_ chest – and somehow, he knows the Whaler’s name, knows it as certainly as he knows his own.

“Thomas.”

Thomas’ smile softens at the address. “Forgive me. I know we agreed not to – but the Lord Protector has vanished, and all that blood, I thought…”

He trails off as though he cannot bear to finish his sentence, and Corvo shivers, feeling like his stolen body is remembering the reason for the bloodstain downstairs. “I’m fine,” he says – lies through his teeth, more like. “Attano won’t be a problem anymore.”

There’s something rueful about Thomas’ expression. “He must’ve given you no other option,” he sighs. “I’m sorry.”

It’s a strange sentiment, one Corvo can’t make sense of. Feeling utterly wrong-footed in this conversation, he shrugs. “It doesn’t matter.”

“No, I suppose it doesn’t,” Thomas agrees, a ghost of that brilliant smile returning to his features. “We can go now, can’t we? Retire. See the world. Settle somewhere.”

 _Retire_?

The whole idea sounds far too mundane, nothing at all like what he knows of Daud and his ilk – but then that’s the thing, isn’t it? He knows nothing about Daud, nothing but the fact that he was the one who murdered Jessamine and whisked Emily away. And that’s all he needs to know, because Daud got what was coming to him, and Corvo has no sympathy for Daud or any of the men who chose to follow him.

Not even if they want to retire. Not even if they feel remorse. Not even if he is certain that this second-hand feeling he’s experiencing when he looks at Thomas is a love strong enough to rival the love Corvo feels for Jessamine.

“Yes,” he says. He needs to put a stop to this, he needs to find an excuse to leave, or he’s going to slip up. “I have to take care of a few last things out in the city, but once it’s done, we can go.”

It’s a plausible excuse, and he’s so close to making his escape – and he could have, he _would_ have – but Thomas is still too close, and his reaction to Daud’s final heading out is, understandably but inconveniently, to draw his lover into a fierce embrace.

“You’re cold,” Thomas murmurs.

Of course he’s cold. He’s _dead_.

“It’s Dunwall,” is what he says, his arms almost subconsciously snaking around Thomas’ waist, working on muscle memory alone. “I’m always cold.”

A common sentiment amongst those who immigrated here from Serkonos, and Thomas accepts it readily enough, a soft laugh escaping him. “Karnaca isn’t that far away,” he says, and Corvo can’t be sure if the longing for home those words evoke is his own or Daud’s. “Lizzy won’t mind the journey.”

Corvo hums, not trusting himself to say anything. He has no idea who this Lizzy even is. He shifts, extracting himself from Thomas’ hold, intending to put some distance between them so he can finally _leave_ – but he’s not quick enough, not smart enough about it, and Thomas’ hand slides from his shoulders down, coming to rest on his chest.

They realise the implication at the same time.

“Daud, your heart –”

 _Isn’t beating_.

He’s quicker about it this time, drawing the blade at his hip with a practised ease that’s more Daud’s than his own, and he has the sword shoved through Thomas’ torso in the blink of an eye.

Thomas cuts himself off with a pained gasp, wide eyes dipping down to the blade running him clean through – but his body doesn’t turn to ash. His body doesn’t turn to ash because he’s _not dead_.

Corvo stares down at the sword himself – the sword which is several inches off centre, buried deep in the right side of Thomas’ abdomen. He’s been in the business of stabbing and receiving stabs long enough to know that this particular stab isn’t fatal.

He _missed_.

He hasn’t missed in years. Decades, even. Can’t recall a time his sword didn’t hit its exact intended target since before he won the Blade Verbana. But this…

This is because of Daud. Of whatever part of him is still lingering in this body.

Thomas’ fingers curl around his wrist, as though he wants to draw it back, make him pull out the sword – but his grip is weak, fingers sleek with sweat, the same cold sweat that’s broken out on his forehead. His eyes are unfocused but still clear, swimming with pain and with a wholly different kind of hurt that Corvo can feel blooming in Daud’s chest, too, like the splinters of an exploding bullet coursing through the body he stole.

“Daud?” Thomas’ voice is like glass – crystalline, transparent, and so very, very fragile. It would be so easy to shatter it – to shatter _him_. To say ‘yes’, or to stay silent, to just twist the blade and watch him bleed out, watch him die with the knowledge that it’d been his beloved Daud who’d done this to him.

He’s tempted to. He _wants_ to teach Thomas exactly what happens when you’re stupid enough to love someone like the Knife of Dunwall. Wants him to die as Jessamine had, by Daud’s hand, clutching a gaping wound, gasping for breath that won’t come, breath that won’t ever come again. But then Jessamine, at the very least, died in the arms of someone she loved, of someone who loved _her_ , and it’s her eyes he sees when he looks at Thomas, warm brown instead of pale blue, and he _can’t_.

“No.”

Thomas’ breathing quickens, fingers digging hard into Corvo’s borrowed wrist. “Lord Protector,” he says then, with a baffling amount of certainty.

“Yes.”

Thomas closes his eyes for but a moment, and when they open again, they’re hard and calculating, assessing the man before him as though he does not have a sword currently buried in his stomach. “Your magic,” he begins, slowly, carefully, “is it… a mirage? Or more like –”

“Possession,” Corvo confirms before Thomas can inquire. “This is his body.”

“His… corpse?” His voice cracks despite his admirable attempt to keep it level.

Corvo doesn’t answer, instead using his free hand to lift up the shirt he just put on, hooks his thumb under the bandage he hastily wrapped around Daud’s stomach and pulls it up with the shirt, showing Thomas the gaping hole his folding sword carved there.

“I see,” Thomas says as Corvo slips the bandage back into place. “Thank you.”

Corvo can’t possibly fathom what Thomas would want to thank him for – but before he can ask, before he can even _think_ to ask, the fingers around his wrist tighten into a vice grip, stronger than he thought Thomas capable of in his state, and Thomas _twists_.

Not to hurt him. Not to make him drop the sword. It’s nothing but guidance, Thomas forcing Corvo’s – _Daud’s_ – arm to shift, the blade in his belly along with it. Carving a gaping wound into his torso like Corvo thought to, the sword tearing through tissue as though it’s butter. A _fatal_ wound.

“What are you _doing_?”

Thomas’ expression is more serene than a dying man’s has any right to be. “My life belongs to Daud,” he breathes, the words struggling to make it past the blood starting to trickle from the corner of his mouth. “If he’s gone… then I follow. Even to the depths of the Void.”

Even to the depths of the Void.

If it wasn’t for Emily, Corvo would have welcomed his execution back in Coldridge. He would’ve left the key to his cell where he’d found it and let them chop his head off if it meant reuniting with Jessamine – or even if it just meant leaving a world where she doesn’t exist anymore.

He still doesn’t understand how anyone could have fallen in love with the Knife of Dunwall, of all people. But he most certainly understands being in too deep.

“I hope you find him.”

Thomas manages to tilt his lips into a weak smile – and his face stays that way, the light in his eyes dimming, like the last rays of sunshine peeking over the horizon at sunset, until finally, it’s dark.

He’s gone.

And Corvo – is _flung backwards_.

He slams against the frame of Daud’s bed, the impact sending a jolt up his spine that forces a groan of pain out of him. His spine has always been sensitive, ever since he took that bullet when he was younger, the one that would’ve left him paralysed if not for –

His head snaps up, and he stares at his hands – his uncovered, gloveless, _own_ hands, complete with the Mark of the Outsider on the left and an old scar on the thumb of his right. Not Daud’s. Not anymore.

Because Daud’s body has crumpled where Corvo last held it upright, sagged unceremoniously against Thomas’, the two corpses connected by the sword still clutched tightly in Daud’s death grip, the tip of it just visible protruding from Thomas’ back. There’s a certain poetry in it, the two lovers united in death. If Sokolov painted this picture, it would sell for thousands.

Corvo leaves them as they are, all thoughts of harnessing Daud’s magic long gone. It’s clear to him that the Mark, the power, still has a mind of its own – Daud’s mind, specifically – and he doesn’t want to mess around with volatile and unstable magic. He’ll have to make do with his own.

The key to the District tucked away in his pocket, Corvo flees the gruesome beauty he’s created, his hand wrapped tightly around the disembodied Heart he’s come to loathe and adore simultaneously.

Perhaps, when it’s done, when Emily is safe, he can join her.


End file.
